


'Interrupting' 221B (or, five times Lestrade thought he was interrupting John and Sherlock)

by PhantomLass



Series: The Worlds First Consulting Girl Detective [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Are they or aren't they, F/M, Fem!Sherlock, Femlock, Gen, GirlSherlock, Lestrade isn't happy, Protective John, Protective Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomLass/pseuds/PhantomLass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 times Lestrade thinks he is interrupting something between Sherlock and John but he can't put his finger on it. </p><p>---</p><p>Hope you enjoy :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sofa Did It

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't directly linked to any of the stories I've already written :)
> 
> \---
> 
> So I have this whole little universe inside my head where Sherlock is actually a 18-20 year old young woman but everyone else is the same. 
> 
> You can totally blame this on me reading Sherlock Holmes, Mary Russell and Flavia de Luce too close to each other. 
> 
> Anyway, I have no ‘story’ planned out, just rough ideas.

The first time Lestrade thought he was ‘interrupting something’ was when there had been on a case for almost a week before calling Sherlock in. He knew he was going to get it in the neck for calling her in so late into the investigation but the case had looked like the definition of an open-and-shut until it hadn’t anymore.

He had been let in by a smiling Mrs Hudson.

“On you go up, dear,” she had told him pointing up the stairs.

 “They’ve been at it all morning, maybe they’ll have a little rest when you go in,”

Her words brought a frown to his face for a second until he reached 221B and reached for the handle.

Thud!

He stopped.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

What the hell was –

No. It couldn’t be what he thought it was because John was a gentlemen and he wouldn’t … would he?

Thud.

Thud.

A very John sounding groan came from behind the door followed by a feminine gasp.

Greg saw red and before he knew it his hand was back on the door and he was storming into the flat ready to possibly kill John Watson and use every possible skill he had to hide the body.

He stopped in his tracks.

There, wedged at one of the most bizarre angels he had ever seen was the sofa in the entrance to the kitchen.

Perched on top of the kitchen table – strangely free of any experiments he notices – was Sherlock, her face scrunched up as she steadied herself against the heavy table and pushed at the sofa with both feet.

John was obviously trying to convince it to move through the gap by using more violent means and was just kicking it viciously, almost snarling at the piece of furniture.

Kick.

Thud!

The sofa bounced of the door frame.

 

“John, stop that. You’ll break the glass!” Sherlock snapped, “Mrs Hudson is still angry with me about the wall!”

“Sherlock, it might be the only way to get the damn thing to move!” he kicked it again and everyone froze as the glass vibrated.

Greg watched as John looked straight from the glass partition to the scowling face of Sherlock.

“Evening Lestrade,” Sherlock greeted, bracing herself against the table once again and pushing.

“Greg,” John nodded in greeting and then went back to the sofa, treating it a little more gently than before.

“What on earth are you doing?” he asked, he couldn’t see any reason for the sofa to be near the kitchen. But then he wasn’t in Sherlock head.

“An experiment,” answered John.

“Experiment,” gasped Sherlock, lowering her feet from the sofa and swinging then round onto the table and standing on it.

She got that thinking look - the one that usually led to Anderson facing a wall.

“What can we do for you Greg?” John stepped away from the sofa while Sherlock was having think.

“Case work for Sherlock,” he replied.

“The death of Charles Manning?” Sherlock leapt from the table and began to fiddle with the pillows on the sofa.

“Yes,” Greg began to list all of the basic details, “29 years old, young family, just got a new job and moved to the city, wife and child-”

“It was the decorator and the joiner,” Sherlock gasped as she pried all of the pillows free from the sofa and threw them any which way. He caught one as it flew for him.

“What?”

“Paid Mrs Manning a visit yesterday,” John explained, catching another pillow and dodging the next.

The sofa was now bear.

“Very dull,” Sherlock announced, clambering back onto the table for another birds-eye-view of the situation.

Greg felt his blood pressure begin to rise.

“Alright Sherlock, explain,”

So she did.

A new sofa had been delivered a few days before. Why? The young couple could hardly afford new furniture when they had just moved house and were having it decorated – new jobs or not.

“People buy furniture Sherlock, they might have saved up for it,”

“No, the decorator claims to have spilled a full tin of paint onto the sofa,”

“So,”

“So? So why wasn’t there any paint on the walls? Why was there no smell of paint? Even after so long there would still be a bit of a smell. They weren’t paying for a painter. They were having the wallpaper stripped and another pattern put up,” Sherlock sniffed, “Very sloppy of the murderer really he should have said paste,”

“The decorator replaced the sofa?” Greg tried to follow Sherlock’s line of thought.

“Yes, because he,” she jumped down from the table, “and the joiner smuggled the body out of the house inside the sofa,”

“Come along John, it should fit now,”

Greg stepped back as John took up his position at the sofa and pulled while Sherlock pushed. It slid easily through the gap without the extra bulk of the cushions.

“Haha,” Sherlock clapped her hands and leapt into the air, spinning about as she did so.

“He did it with the joiners help,”

“The joiner?”

“Look into their backgrounds Lestrade. You’ll find that they have worked together on several jobs. Home owners just moving into their new properties you will find. Boxes still strewn about not knowing where anything is. You will find that most of them will be missing things. And what would they put it down to? The inevitability of moving house and misplacing some things,”

Greg watched as with Johns help she manoeuvred the sofa back to where it belonged.

“And the point of…” he gestured to the sofa.

“To determine if it would have been a two man job,” she answered, slamming the cushions and pillows back into place.

“Maybe Manning came home early and caught them somewhere they weren’t meant to be. There was a confrontation. A struggle. Manning ends up dead. How to dispose of the body. I would judge that he was in a panic and so he contacted his co-conspirator,” she flopped down onto the sofa and wriggled about to get comfortable and John went to put the kettle on.

“Now wait a minute, there was no mention of a joiner from Mrs Manning,” Greg’s temper was beginning to fray. To others he knew it seemed like he had an endless supply of tolerance where the young woman was concerned but it have been along week and he was tired.

“That is because Mrs Manning did not hire a joiner. The joiner was a friend of the decorator, he was called in only to help in disposing of the body,”

“How do you know this exactly?”

“Splinters trodden into the carpet and a lovely smear of wood glue along one of the walls,” she answered matter of factly.

“And the sofa?” he sighed, feeling the start of a headache.

“Have you seen how hollow the inside of a sofa can be?” she asked, leaving it at that.

Greg shook his head but let the matter rest and called into Donovan to bring the decorator in for questioning and to find his friend. All the while he watched as John potted about in the kitchen making a pot of tea and by the smell some toast. 

“Cuppa Greg?” the doctor called to him.

“Nah, got to get back to the Yard,” he replied unable to take his eyes from the doctors strangely domestic actions as he finished making the tea and toast and brought them through on a tray to the living room. 

He put the tray on the coffee table and handed the plate of toast to the slouching Sherlock - who, Greg just noticed, wasn’t in her pyjamas but a blouse and jeans - who rolled her eyes but sat up. 

“Not hungry,” she looked at the toast like it was going to turn into a snake and bite her.

John just ignored her and took the tea from the tray, patted her bare feet for her to move them, and sat down at the opposite end of the sofa.

Greg saw where all the experiments had got to. John’s armchair was filled with glass cylinders and dishes.

“We made a deal,”

Deal?

Sherlock grumbled something but bit into the toast all the same.

Greg’s eyebrows very nearly vanished into his hairline. 

Sherlock listened to no one and he had no idea if what he was witnessing was a good thing or a bad one. 

He knew one thing though. 

He would be keeping a closer eye on them.


	2. Shower Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time Lestrade walks into 221B to find John carrying Sherlock. Wait? Is that a towel she is wrapped in?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to my Girl!Sherlock universe guys :).
> 
> Times when poor Lestrade thinks that he is interrupting something between Sherlock and John. Seriously he is an inspector, he can spot a pattern when he sees one ;)

The second time Lestrade walked into the flat in the middle of something ‘off’ he couldn’t really read anything terribly terrible into it unless he was feeling uncharitable – which, lately, he was always feeling when it came to Sherlock and her flatmate.

He knocked on the door of the flat but when it only squeaked open on its hinges and there was no reply he let himself cautiously into the flat. Sherlock had accumulated quite a list of enemies during her short lifespan and he wouldn’t put it past a few of them to hunt her down.

“Hello,” he called stepping over the threshold into the darkened room.

There was no Sherlock stretched out on the sofa in her dressing gown and no John sitting in his armchair reading the paper and announcing anything of interest to the genious. Nothing. 

It had been a cold and gloomy day in London – but nothing else could be expected of late November really – and sleet had been falling for most of the day making the pavements traitorous and the temperature bitingly cold.

The inside of the flat was warm though as he walked around the corner to the kitchen. Almost unpleasantly clammy and he glanced around in search of the source and his gaze landed on the door to the bathroom – also sitting ajar – where steam was belching from it.

He could almost smell the steam and feeling came back to his cold nose.

“John! Sherlock!” he tried again, making his way past the kitchen table (which he was pretty sure was at a perpetual state of exploding from all of Sherlock’s experiments) and into the hallway.

“Sherlock! John!”

He reached out for the bathroom door when suddenly it opened from the other side.

His mouth dropped open as John stepped out. A fully dressed John wearing jeans and a tea-shirt covered in damp patches and was carrying...Sherlock. A Sherlock who was naked but for a towel.

His eyes bulged. And then much to his relief he noticed bra straps. He hoped that meant there was more on under the towel too.

John stepped back slightly in surprise and Greg noticed the way his arms tightened around Sherlock’s back and legs. She was a dead weight in his arms and for the first time Greg looked at Sherlock’s face. She was pale as death with a slight flush to her cheeks. He couldn’t tell if the flush was from the steam or from sickness.

“Greg, what are you doing here? And in the flat?” John asked him and Greg just stared in surprise.

What the hell was Sherlock doing half naked in John’s arms.

“Uh-“

“You know what, never mind. Just wait a minute will you,”

Without another word John came out of the bathroom properly and went straight to Sherlock’s room and out of Greg’s line of sight, Sherlock safely bundled in his arms the whole time.

Greg stood uselessly for a few seconds before heading back to the kitchen and making use of the kettle. He spared a second to glance inside it to check that none of Sherlock’s experiments had migrated from the table before setting it to boil.

There was bound to be an explanation for the situation, he told himself as  he threw teabags into two mugs.

But the waiting was doing nothing for his blood pressure. It just seemed so wrong. In all of the time that he had known her he had never known Sherlock to be sick a day – even with all of the late nights and her crazy eating patterns. And to see her looking so pale and helpless  in Johns arms – he would never have guesses that the doctor had the strength to lift anyone (even Sherlock’s with her skinny frame) – sent a million and one alarm bells ringing in his mind.

He was just fishing the teabags from the mugs and splashing a healthy dose of milk into each when John entered the kitchen looking tired.

He handed the blonde a mug and picked up his own.

“What’s going on, John?”

John took a gulp of his tea and sighed in appreciation.

“Thanks,”

Greg just nodded his head and waited for his question to be answered.

“Sherlock won’t be able to assist at the Yard for a few days,” Greg opened his mouth to speak, it was the run up to Christmas and things always got busy but before he could say anything John continued, “She took a dunk in the Thames this afternoon,”

Ah.

Greg felt a flush of guilt rise up his neck.

“She was in soaking wet clothes for over an hour – I’m surprised that I didn’t have to get the anti-freeze to them to get them off her. She’ll be lucky if she gets away with just a blocked nose,”

A cough from down the hall proved that the sniffles weren’t all that Sherlock was going to have from her little swim in the river.

“John,” the girl in question croaked from her bedroom.

Greg was surprised at the speed that John put his hardly touched cup of tea onto the counter and left the kitchen.

“I’ll let myself out,” he informed the retreating man.

“Yeah, fine,” John answered, not even turning back before he went into the bedroom and once again out of Greg’s sight.

Suspicions that he had forced to the back of his mind since the couch incident re-surfaced once again as he rapidly finished his tea.

He listened to the gentle mumbling of voices, interrupted occasionally by Sherlock coughing and what sounded like a glass being placed on a table.

It could all be in his imagination.

The shared glances between Sherlock and John. The extra sparkle that Sherlock had about her since the doctor had taken up residence in 221B. The way that John’s eyes followed her at crime scenes. Hell, all the was short off was love hearts in his eyes.

Greg tipped back his head and emptied what was left of the mug of tea in one gulp and placed the empty mug into the sink.

He let himself out of the flat and made sure to pull the door shut behind him and walked down the steps and into the freezing cold street.

 _Was_ it all in his imagination?


	3. Paper Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is glad that he isn't alone when the third incident happens....

When the third…incident occurred Greg was happy that he was not alone this time and he was also thinking that he should learn from the first two occurrences and that if no one came to the door after a knock not to go in.

But he didn’t and he did.

This time he was in the company of Mrs Hudson who had tottered up the stairs behind him, fussing the whole time in that birdlike way she often did. She was still dressed in her nightclothes, with a fluffy nightgown tied around her and a few curlers strategically placed in her hair.

“I really think you should leave them be, Inspector,” she told him as he climbed the stairs in front of her. It was early – just coming up to half eight, but as he had been standing by the riverside since the back of three freezing his arse off he was passed caring whether he woke anyone – well, Sherlock - up or not.

“I heard them come in not two hours ago,” the old woman continued.

Greg stopped at the top of the landing and gave the landlady time to reach him and finish speaking before he knocked.

“And it’s been as quite as a graveyard since. Not even a whiff of the violin,” she finished just as she reached the top step.

“I am sure they won’t mind me waking them up, Mrs Hudson,” he tried to soothe her, reaching for the door and knocking loudly.

Personally he doubted the genius ever slept. Or if she did she had figured out how to do it with her eyes open and being fully functional the whole time.

There was no answer.

“See!” Mrs Hudson hissed victoriously, “The poor dears are probably tucked up in their beds. I keep telling Sherlock that these hours she keeps aren’t healthy for a growing girl, but she never listens. I keep telling her she’ll regret it when she gets to my age and she’ll have more than a dodgy hip to…”

Greg half listened to Mrs Hudson as he tried to think of what else to do.

He pulled out his phone.

“I think that John is a good influence on her…” the old lady continued and Greg nodded his head in agreement as he searched for Sherlock’s number.

He pressed the call button and lifted the mobile to his ear.

It rang.

And on this particular morning as Greg stood outside 221B Baker Street he realised for the first time just how thin the door was.

He could hear music coming from inside the flat.

Sherlock was never without her phone. If they could hear it that meant it was in the living room, and if it was in the living room that meant that Sherlock was in the living room. And if she was in the living room why wasn’t she answering it.

Mrs Hudson fell quite for a little while before she began to giggle. 

“Oh, Sherlock does have a bad sense of humour,” she laughed before falling silent when muffled voices could be heard from behind the door.

Greg held the mobile away from his ear and held his breath, trying to hear what was going on.

“John…” moaned Sherlock, her voice sounding thick.

“Just ignore it Sherlock,” he could hear John grumble just as sleepily.

“But its L-,” he heard her mumble her voice becoming faint but he could fill in her own name.

Silence fell and the only thing that could be heard was the ring tone that she had apparently chosen for him.

A moan of annoyance drifted to them through the door.

“Waya doin’”

“Trying to find my phone,” Sherlock sounded more awake than she had done moments before.

“Stop moving. I was comfy,” John grumbled.

Lestrade bit back a chuckle. He could just imagine Sherlock pulling cushions from behind a snoozing John as she searched for her phone.

_She must be hell to live with._

“John, let go!”

Wait! What?

“I was comfy,”

“Good for you but hardly relevant right now. I need to find my phone!”

The ringing finally stopped and he was sent to voicemail. He hung up.

“See,” yawned John.

He could hear the man yawn! Something had to be done about these doors.

“Now get back here and go to sleep,”

Get back here? As in with John? She was sleeping with John?

He pushed the mobile into his pocket – with a little more force than needed he would admit – and chapped loudly on the door.

“Who is it?” John shouted.

“Lestrade,” Greg shouted back.

“Ugh,” John moaned, “Come in. The doors open,”

Greg exchanged a look with Mrs Hudson who was only smiling wistfully and let himself into the flat.

He paused at what he saw.

Both Sherlock and John were fully clothed – he thanked every saint and deity he could think of for that small mercy – if a little ruffled looking. Yes they had definitely slept in their clothes, even if it had been just for a couple of hours.

Their positions however were anything but innocent and Greg could only guess that John was still half asleep to let him into the flat when he was in such a compromising position.

John was flat on his back, his eyes bleary form sleep and still dressed in his jacket by the looks of things. While Sherlock straddled him, leaning over him at a provocative angle as she apparently kept up the search for her mobile phone somewhere behind John’s head.

Greg knew that sometimes Sherlock had no concepts of personal boundaries but this was taking things to a whole new extreme.

He stepped back out into the landing and closed the door breathing steadily and trying not to read too much into what he had just seen – again. He failed.

He looked at the landlady, who must have seen what was going on when he opened the door, and pointed silently in the direction of the flat.

Mrs Hudson simple smiled and patted his arm not bothered at all by the situation.

Was this something that happened often?

Was everyone in this building insane?

“I’ll go put the kettle on,” she told him consolingly and turned to go back down to her own flat.

He shook himself from his stupor and cleared his throat in an attempt to speak.

He gave up.

“Come along dear. They’ll come out when their ready,”

He followed the landlady into her flat and sat down at her small kitchen table as she pottered around making him a cup of tea.

Not his imagination.

Most definitely NOT his imagination.

“Mrs Hudson?”

“Yes dear?” the landlady paused in pouring boiling water into a teapot and glanced over at him.

“What  _was_ Sherlock’s ring tone for me?”

She smiled and went back to filling the pot.

“Danse Macabre,”


	4. The Black and Blue Bust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Yard are looking for more missing evidence at Baker Street. John is not happy and Lestrade's suspicions continue to grow.

_If I find out that he has been taking advantage of her I'll kill him!_

Greg kept an eagle eye on the housemates as the 'evidence' continued to mount up in his mind. Well, more of an eagle eye that he had been anyway. He viewed every shared look and exchanged smile with suspicion. Thoroughly unhappy with the idea that as soon as Sherlock left a crime scene or he walked out of 221B he had no idea what went on between the two amateur sleuths.

Or the 'freak and her groupie' as Sally had begun to refer to them.

But there was never anything concrete about his suspicions.

Other than that he was watching Sherlock grow closer and closer to the first person she had ever allowed into her world for the first time since he had met her.

Was that the route of his problem with what was happening?

Sherlock did not allow people 'in'. She kept them at arm's length (or they kept themselves) with her personality and her ability to know what you had for your breakfast a week ago. Greg had been present for more than a few first time meetings involving Sherlock and he knew that most tended not to appreciate her…gift. And yet here was John Watson, still around and still looking at Sherlock as though she had hung the moon and plugged in the stars every time she deduced a scene.

Even when she had been the skinny little pre-teen sitting outside of his office all of those years ago there had always been a wall between Sherlock and the rest of the world. But not anymore. She had let someone in. And this someone was John Watson. And yes, if he had to admit it he would. Greg was jealous of the other man who had just swanned into their lives and seemed to be found immediately trustable by Sherlock.

Nothing overly suspicious happened during the weeks since the last case and on the several occasions when he had just popped into the flat for the sake of paying a visit there had been nothing up with the scenes that met his eyes. But sometimes eyes weren't reliable.

Sherlock would be in the kitchen bent over her microscope or scraping something from or into a petri dish, frowning with concentration or plucking at her violin in thought while John sat in the living room watching tellie or reading the paper.

All innocent, no matter how you viewed it and Greg was beginning to feel all kinds of evil for his thoughts against John Watson.

The next time he was at the flat because of a case was halfway through a particularly gruesome double homicide that had everyone on edge.

He did not like calling Sherlock in on such cases, something in him rebelling at the idea of exposing her to such scenes but he knew when he was beat and for the sake of giving the families the closure they deserved and catching the culprit before he killed again Greg bit the bullet and asked for Sherlock's help.

She had provided it with an all too happy gleam in her eyes as she went through the scene photos (griping about not being called in straight away under her breath). She had sent him on his way like a good little blood hound.

That had been two days before.

And then the evidence had gone missing from storage.

With irritation he headed to Baker Street – accompanied by Donovan and Anderson (who could never pass up the opportunity to raid Sherlock's flat) and a select group of officers who volunteered purely for the reason that they had been the injured party in the 'you're being cheated on' argument and were grateful for the insight – as such they treated her space with a bit more respect than Donovan and Anderson did.

He knew he was pushing it with the drugs busts. It had only been a fluke that he had caught her the one time she tried anything – and she didn't even like it and was miserable the whole time before it worked out of her system – but he would continue to use it against her without any guilt for as long as she kept making off with the evidence.

"Is this really necessary?" John asked as he opened the door to them and the squad filed into the living room and spread out to their customary

"How do you even know it was Sherlock?" John snapped.

"Pff, please. Like it could be anyone else," Sally spoke up from her place in the kitchen.

"Hey! Leave those alone,"

Greg watched in fascination as John stormed forward took a plastic bag from Sally's hand and replaced it in the fridge in a dish of some kind.

"Were those fingers?" Sally asked in disgust.

"Do you have proof that it was Sherlock?" John snapped, closing the fridge and glaring at Greg.

Greg sighed. So it was past midnight and they were keeping the doctor out of his bed. He could sympathise. But he was obviously more than a little naïve about some things when it came to Sherlock.

"Look, John, Sherlock does this, it's a hobby of sorts," Greg told the blonde.

After all it sounded a lot better than saying 'no actually we don't have proof as the security cameras have been down for the past three days'.

"And I am telling you that she had been with me all day and we have been nowhere near the crime scene or the Yard. Sherlock did not take the –"

"What's going on?" a sleepy voice enquired from the hallway and John immediately turned from him to face Sherlock.

Greg froze.

The girl looked a wreck.

There was a nasty cut along the top of her right eye, the red puffy line contrasting sickeningly with her pale skin and a horrible bruise seemed to mottle the whole right side of her face.

Greg went to move towards her but John bet him to it.

"You should be in bed," he heard the doctor mumble to her softly, stroking the backs of his finger gently along her bruised face, carefully bypassing the discoloured skin Greg noticed.

Her eyes closed and she winced slightly.

John's hand immediately left her face and he went to the cupboard, brushing past the officers in the kitchen with annoyance.

"I can't sleep with this lot barging round the flat like a herd of elephants," she mumbled, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes, her arms wrapped around her middle.

"What happened?" Greg finally got out, closing the gap between them while John was off doing what he was doing in the kitchen cupboard.

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly and she looked at him with the glazed look of someone on medication.

"Case," she mumbled before closing her eyes again.

"When did this happen?" he asked John, pointing at her face as the doctor came back over to them carrying a glass of water and two small pills.

"Yesterday," John answered shortly, "and we have been home all day," he glared at him and cast his glance around at the officers before ignoring them all completely in favour of focusing on Sherlock.

"Sherlock, take these," he spoke softly again and Sherlock's eyes opened wearily.

"Don't wanna," she mumbled, her eyes closing again, "they make me feel fuzzy. Mind over matter," she drawled beginning to slump and in the time it took Greg to blink John had stepped into her side and wrapped his arm around her waist, propping her suddenly slack body awkwardly against him.

Greg moved forward taking the glass and pills from John and stepped back to give the doctor room to hold Sherlock more securely against him.

"Back to bed for you," John told Sherlock.

Much to Greg's surprise the girl was still awake and argued a little.

"Do't wanna," she grumbled, her face buried in the John's jumper.

Greg was sure he caught a slight smile sweep across the doctor's face as he rubbed Sherlock's back in a calming way.

Sherlock strained with some effort and squinted about the room. Greg felt guilty all of a sudden for the 'raid' and for waking her up when she was in such a state.

"Why's Lestrade here?" she asked, her voice thick with drowsiness and confusion as she slowly glanced between himself and the officers.

Something seemed to click inside of her head and she forced herself to straighten.

"Has there been another murder?"

The burst of energy seemed to take what little energy she had summoned right out of her and she slumped against John once again. The blonde frowned at him.

If looks could kill Lestrade had no doubts the usually calm doctor's glare would have had him nine foot under in one seconds flat.

"Never you mind that, Sherlock," John spoke softly, "Back to bed and I'll bring you a cuppa, and you know the pills will make you feel better," Sherlock complained but allowed herself to be led gently back to her room, "That super-brain of yours needs rest too,"

Lestrade stood slack jawed as he watched John disappear into Sherlock's room with her for the second time in his life.

Once again his mind begged the question – what went on when no one was here?

"What the hell happened?" Greg hissed when several minutes later John shut Sherlock's bedroom door – although he noticed it had still been left slightly ajar.

John just glared. Again. And then filled the silence.

"Sherlock does have cases outside of the YARD," the blonde informed him primly, "And for the past two days she has been shadowing a suspect," he spoke between his teeth.

"Is that who-"

"Yes. He didn't take kindly to being stalked, woman or not,"

John began to rub his hands and for the first time Greg noticed the bruised knuckles.

_Oh for the love of…_

He immediately looked away, deciding out of sight out of mind was a good moto to work from for the time being.

John took the glass and held out his hand for the tablets. Greg dropped the capsules his palm and he vanished back into the bedroom.

Greg sighed. Why couldn't anything ever be easy when it came to Sherlock.

Behind him, in the kitchen and the living room, the search continued.

He knew the team wouldn't find anything, the whole point of the search was to annoy Sherlock until she coughed up the evidence. But as Sherlock was now in her bed and obviously not in the frame of mind to be annoyed he wasn't entirely sure how to proceed. All he knew was that there was nowhere else the evidence could be so he allowed the search to continue in hope of someone stumbling across what had gone missing.

Anderson and Donovon where having a ball in the kitchen, complaining about the gruesome collection of organic odds and ends in the fridge and something that looked suspiciously like a human nose in the bread bin – Greg had accepted Sherlock's bizarre quirks years ago and didn't even pretend to know why she needed thumbs, eyes and apparently now noses in her kitchen.

He sighed in disgust at their behaviour as they poked and prodded at the bags.

He didn't know why they always made a beeline for the kitchen. They had been here often enough to know what to expect and all they did was complain. He assumed they just liked to remind themselves that they were justified in calling Sherlock a 'freak'.

The rest of the team were focusing on the living room, carefully lifting Sherlock's papers and combing through the bookshelves, being careful to put everything back where they had found it.

He sat down and watched.

Ten minutes past and there was no signs of the evidence but John finally left the bedroom.

Greg stood and almost backed up at the look of fury on the doctor's face. He had often seen John Watson annoyed, exasperated, irritated…(you could be around Sherlock for a long stretch of time without encountering some of these emotions eventually) but never before had he seen him so angry. Tonight had definitely been a first for that.

A piece of paper was shoved into his hand as John stalked past him and seemed to focus on boiling the kettle and preparing a teabag – grabbing a bag of something out of Donovan's hands and slamming the lid of the biscuit tin (very nearly taking off Anderson's fingers.

Greg un-crumpled the paper and turned it the right way round, squinting as he tried to make out Sherlock's worse than usual hand writing.

_Evidence no doubt 'mispalced' as diversion,_ read the note,  _Check for the evidence from last week's knifing/drugs raid near Piccadilly, as it will no doubt be missing I would check into the extra-curricular activities of some of your officers. I have had better things to do than pilfer evidence, Lestrade. Now kindly call of the hounds. S_

The writing was more scratchy and messy than usual no doubt thanks to the medication and I took Greg several reads to understand just what she was saying.

It wasn't an easy matter to make off with evidence – especially of the illegal substance variety – and it would take more than one person to pull it off. But how did she know? One part of his brains shouted that she was Sherlock and she knew everything but really this was ridiculous. He knew the case she was talking about as he had been called in thanks to knife attack that had taken place and Sherlock had accompanied him…What had she seen that he hadn't?

The clanking of a spoon hitting the sink drew him from his thoughts just in time to see John head back to Sherlock's room with cuppa in hand.

"Everyone, we're done," he shouted, gaining everyone's attention and they obediently filed out.

Everyone, that is, apart from Donovan.

"Did the freak tell you were it was?" she asked, coming to stand in front of him.

"She doesn't have it. Back to the Yard," he told her.

"And you believe her?" she looked scandalised.

"Yes, now out," he snapped.

Donovan's mouth snapped shut and he could almost hear her gritting her teeth before she spun on her heals and left.

So now here he was in the eerily silent flat with Sherlock and John in the bedroom. Again.

He walked down the hall and raised his hand to tap gently on the half closed door but the soft mumbling inside stopped him.

"John, why are you so upset," Sherlock sounded tired and her words were coming out slowly like she was having to think very hard about each of them, "This happens, you know it does,"

"They just assume that you do it Sherlock," John sounded exasperated but his voice was soft, "It isn't fair on you,"

Greg felt a pang of guilt. He was right, they did always jump to the conclusion that Sherlock made of with evidence.

"John…it is usually me,"

Greg could just imagine the slight smirk on her face.

"It's not the point,"

Deciding that eavesdropping was a level he wasn't willing to sink too for any longer he tapped softly on the door.

"We're leaving," he announced, not entering the room.

"Should bloody well think so," he heard John grumble before the door opened and he stepped out.

"I'll show you out,"

"John, I'm sorry about this,"

John sighed as he led the way to the still open door and ran a hand through his hair.

"Look, you and Sherlock have some kind of game going on and I don't care, I really don't. She's a little brat when it comes to some things and I know she isn't a saint," John took in a deep breath to steady himself, "But she is damn brilliant at what she does and I had to watch her being banged about by some piece of scum because of what she chooses to do. And then when she is so doped up she can't even stand, never mind defend herself against that lot-" he gestured down the stairs to indicate where the officers had gone, "I have to watch people who don't even like her, never mind respect her for what she can do, raking through her things just so they can feel more self-righteous with their name calling," his voice had gone from a whisper to a spitting hiss.

Silence fell and Greg had no idea what to say to that.

"Tell Sherlock I'm sorry and that I'll look into the matter," he waved the note and headed down the stairs, the door immediately clicking shut behind him.

It wouldn't be until he had found the missing evidence a day later, re-recovered the stolen drugs three days later and apprehended the guilty parties – one secretary and three officers – that he found himself thinking about that night and the gentle touches between John and Sherlock…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing protective John in this one. :)
> 
> One More to Go...:)


	5. Serial Killers and Snogging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A serial killer is praying on happy couples. Lestrade is not happy when he finds that Sherlock is about to set herself (and John) up as bait. What is the point of the Doctor living with her if he can't stop her from carrying out some of her craziest schemes?

It was not a case Lestrade had wanted to get Sherlock involved with. These were the kind of cases he never wanted anywhere near her. But there was no keeping Sherlock Holmes out of anything when she caught a scent of something being kept from her. She had been like a dog with a bone when she had found out about the murders taking place.

Couples were being found, very much dead.

Four couples in the past five weeks and Lestrade had been living in constant dread of a phone call reporting another one and now here was one Sherlock Holmes setting herself up in the firing line to be that fifth victim.

“I can’t allow you to do this Sherlock,” he struggled to keep hold of his temper as she entered the living room in a pair of jeans, boots and a loose top that fell off the shoulder to reveal a bra strap.

He was surprised to see her looking so casual. Apart from her pyjamas the only other clothes he saw her in with any kind of regularity were the ones she wore to crime scenes.

“Do what?” she asked, running a brush through her hair as she looked in the mirror over the fireplace.

It wasn’t that often that he saw her dark curls loose – she preferred to keep them confined in a bun or ponytail at the back of her head – but here she was, hair falling around her face and makeup tastefully done.

All to attract a serial killer. There was something definitely wrong with this girl.

“Go out and have fun?” she asked, turning to him with that smile on her face that he hated because he knew what it meant.

“I know what you are doing Sherlock,” he growled under his breath.

“Oh please,” she sighed, “John and I are going out for a night of fun and dancing,”

By the look on her face it looked like she was not relishing those activates.

But he knew fine well that ‘fun and dancing’ were not two activates that were on Sherlock Holmes’ schedule for the evening.

The ridiculous girl was going out to look for a murderer.

He frowned at her, daring her to tell him another lie.

“Oh, don’t worry so much,” she told him, sashaying to the kitchen table and checking on an experiment that was gently bubbling over a flame of a Bunsen burner. He knew from experience that he did not want to know what the experiment was. Just as he knew that he asked for what he got if he dared to open the fridge door, or worse, look in the bread bin. He would be lucky if fingers were the only things he found.

The squeaking of floor boards announced the arrival of a casually (but smart) dressed John.

Greg wasted no time in turning on the doctor. The damn fool should know better. What was the use of having him around if he couldn’t stop her from doing such stupid things like going serial killer hunting?

“Why are you just going along with this?” he snapped at the doctor who was wearing a resigned look.

“I can hear you,” Sherlock sing-songed from the kitchen.

“You know what she is doing, don’t you?” he ignored the girl in the kitchen and continued his attack on John.

The doctor only stood patiently and waited for him to finish. Lestrade had never wanted to punch someone so much in his life. He breathed heavily after his tirade and waited for a satisfactory answer, all while trying to think of some charges that would be worthy of keeping one Sherlock Holmes under house arrest as of now.

“Look, I am not happy about this either,” John finally answered, straightening his cuffs, “But I would rather she involve me in it and take me along than go off by herself,”

Lestrade opened his mouth, ready to make a biting reply when he stopped himself.

He hated to admit it but John was right. Sherlock often forgot all about her own safety in the thrill of ‘playing the game’ as she put it. And as there was no stopping a Sherlock on the rampage he _would_ rather John be there to watch her back.

He sighed in resignation and he knew that his own expression now matched that off John’s perfectly.

They had both accepted their fates.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade had got hold of a unit and set them to follow the couple as they went from bar to bar around the area where it was known the murdered couples had been the nights of their deaths.

Sherlock and John would go into the club and leave within half an hour and he watched from the unmarked car as Sherlock’s expression grew darker and darker and John continued to follow loyally behind her.

But then something changed in the young woman’s body language when they left the latest club.

She was hanging on John’s arm, a smile as wide as any he had ever seen spread across her face.

John, a small frown of confusion about his eyes, was also smiling.

Lestrade thought he was going to have a heart attack as Sherlock slid her arm from around John’s. He watched as she grabbed the man's hand and dragged him down the side of the club, backed him up against the wall and proceeded to snog the living daylights out of him.

What the hell?

A snicker of “Glad someone is getting some” from one of the officers had him ready to jump out the car and rip off John’s hands when he watched them stray down Sherlock’s back and cup her bottom.

He was going to kill John. He had been waiting for a reason and finally it had arrived.

The couple’s hands joined and their bodies pressed closer together under the flickering light on the side of the building. Lestrade doubted he could be able to fit a cigarette paper between the couple they were pressed so tightly together.

A soft whistle came from an officer in the back seat and he tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

John Watson was a dead man.

He had known something was going on. He knew it! And if that wasn’t a sign of something going on then he didn’t know what was.

His phone chimed and he ignored it. Not daring to take his eyes off the couple for a moment, needing to catalogue every wrong move the doctor made.

It chimed again.

“Um, sir, aren’t you going to get that?” came a timid voice from the back of the car.

He huffed in frustration and groped in his pocket for the phone, his eyes staying on the figures in the alley way.

He found the phone and finally had to drag his eyes away from Sherlock and John.

**Killer inside will be out shortly watch the door.** Read the message, prompt and to the point. There was no signature but the number told him all he needed to know.

He checked the other message.

**Look at your phone!**

How did she do that?

 

* * *

 

Lestrade watched John fuss over Sherlock who was nursing a cut on her forehead as they waited for the ambulance to arrive.

“I don’t need an ambulance, I’m fine,” she grumbled from her place perched on the step of the club.

“You could have a concussion, you need to be checked out,” John told her sternly, forcing her head up to look into her eyes.

“What is the use of living with a doctor,” she complained, “If I still have to be subjected to a paramedic’s prodding?”

John didn’t dignify that with a response.

Sherlock Holmes had to be the only person Lestrade knew who could only just escape death and then complain about having to be seen by a doctor.

_Unbelievable._

They had caught the killer - a barmaid from one of the clubs – in her attempt to dispatch of Sherlock and John in the same way she had her other victims. Thankfully both of them had escaped unscathed from the encounter, except for Sherlock banging her head in the scuffle that had come when the woman had first attacked.

Hands in pockets he stepped towards them.

“So,” both heads shot in his direction, “That was some show you two put on…”

Wait? Was John blushing or was it the lighting?

“Her victims were all happy couples who were very demonstrative in their affections – sickeningly so – according to families. We provided her with the perfect victims and she went for the bait,” Sherlock explained as if she hadn’t just set herself up to draw out a murderer.

Sherlock, obviously deciding the conversation was over, began to type away on her phone at a rapid pace.

Lestrade took the opportunity given to him to draw John to the side.

“And the groping?” he asked, his voice steely to his own ears.

John cleared his throat and avoided looking at him as he shifted from foot to foot.

“Her phone was in her back pocket. She needed it to text you,” John rushed out, “She spotted your little team a few clubs back,”

_Of course she had._

And John Watson was definitely blushing.

Lestrade forced himself to breath steadily, in and out, making himself calm down. He had been so sure tonight would be the night he had some solid proof that there was something going on between the flatmates.

But it looked like it was just a cover.

“Look, um, I’d better get back to Sherlock before she runs off,”

John edged around him and he turned to watch the doctor make a beeline for Sherlock just in time to make her sit back down.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes as he watched their interactions.

John firm but gentle, and Sherlock her usual spikey self as she continually pushed John's hand away from her head only for him to ignore her and go back to his inspection.

He sighed.

Maybe he would just have to get used to their bizarre way of being with each other…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada!
> 
> So that is us all finished with this collection. I am flirting with the idea of an angsty +1 but at the moment consider this bunch completed :)
> 
> Remember, for uncompleted collections that haven't been posted anywhere else yet, please check out my tumblr account.


End file.
